I am submitting a ghost story today. I've got plenty, you know. My life is a regular cornucopia of the supernatural. The story of choice came to mind right away. No, it's not even the headless man in the basement. That one might go too, if I have time. Last night I relived this chosen incident in my mind in preparation for the finishing touches. Unfortunately, I relived it at 3:30 a.m.
I'm pretty sure that trip down memory lane affected my dreams. I was upstairs in a totally white area, with severe, square-cornered architecture. Several groupings of college students sat around on the floor. I began my tale. "Anybody here want to hear a ghost story?" I heard several members of my captive audience breathe, "Ooh!" Then a girl in a different grouping said sarcastically, "Can we stop with the oohs already?" I heard people milling around under my concrete platform on the mezzanine, hubbubbing. Probably drinking white wine in Waterford crystal. Behind me, as I was compelled to look over my shoulder, stood a mannish, frowning, black-haired woman with a blunt haircut in a Jack LaLanne belted white jumpsuit. As I turned, I saw several identical women stationed around the area, hands on hips. They were like those models in the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video. Only nobody would have considered them hot. And they were not wearing red lipstick or fake-playing guitars.
On the bright side, after tossing and turning several hours, I got up for a drink, and thought up the first two lines for my story. Here's one: I saw my first ghost shortly after 9:00 on a hot August night in a Cuba, Missouri, high school gym.
A big thanks to blog buddy Donna for tipping us off about this opportunity. You've still got time. Whatcha waitin' on?
That's all from me for now. I've got to let my ghost flag fly.